A Quiet Knight Alone
by MacyNell
Summary: An evening in the life of Cullen while his beloved Inquisitor is away. What does he do? What does he think about?


Cullen holds the quill poised over the open book before him. Meticulous notes in a crisp, precise hand fill the page, and he reads through every line twice as he checks for errors. Of all his responsibilities, keeping the logbook is his least favored, which is most likely the reason he puts a considerable amount of guilty effort into it. His observations are concise but complete, covering the details of the day's events. His careful record confirms that the women and men chosen for the Inquisitor's army arrive well-trained. The exercises he inflicts upon them are purely meant to further hone and perfect their already impressive skills. The tone of his comments leave no doubt that he is well-pleased with their progress. In Cullen's estimation, if they aren't at present the most effective force in all of Thedas, they soon will be.

The admiration is mutual. When asked about Ser Cullen, the bone-weary soldiers under his command reply with great pride that he is the sword arm of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor's most trusted adviser. They concede that he is a strident drillmaster whose dedication to duty requires him to push them to the extremes of their limits. They also insist that he does everything possible to make sure they are prepared, going so far as to join them in every task he demands of them. Indeed, while those sentiments are all true enough, those same soldiers would be surprised to learn that Ser Cullen seeks to kill two birds with one stone. Yes, it's his job to see that the troops are kept sharp. If it also provides a chance that he might end the day so exhausted that he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep, then he is all the more grateful for his duties.

Satisfied, he places the quill in the holder and sands the page. He neatly stacks the day's reports and deposits them in the desk drawer with the others, noting that the drawer is almost full. Rubbing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, he finally puts aside his thoughts of tactics and training techniques and allows himself to think of her. She should have been home weeks ago. His nearly infinite faith in her capabilities as Inquisitor prevents his worry from becoming the raging, insistent thing it has the potential to be…but _Sweet Andraste_, how he misses her. It's her absence that makes the evenings drag and too often keeps him awake far into the night. Unconsciously, he glances at her bed. _Their_ bed, rather. He probably should have gone back to the chamber across the hall when she left. Protocol says he should have. He hadn't. She insists that his place is _here_, that she needs him to be _here_, in this space she now thinks of as theirs. The morning she told him goodbye, she said, "Please." So, of course he moved most of his belongings into this room permanently that very day. Plainly a declaration of sorts, it's perhaps unwise all things considered. Still, he doesn't regret it, not in the slightest.

He pushes to his feet and begins to prepare for the night. Agility was the focus today, and his armor is light and easily removed, thank the Maker. He brushes and wipes each piece to rid it of grit and sweat before carefully placing it in his trunk. He inspects his weapon next, examining and sharpening its lethal edge. He methodically cleans and oils the sword before wiping down his shield and hanging them both on the rack. With those chores out of the way, he tends to his own ablutions and changes into a fresh linen shirt and trousers. He finally feels some of the tension ebb and he relaxes a bit. _Good_. He silently beckons fatigue to come claim him, though he doubts it will obey.

As has become his habit since coming to Skyhold, he pours a glass of the rich, fortified wine the Inquisitor keeps for her - _their_ - personal use. Not previously fond of anything stronger than ale, he now looks forward to this nightly ritual. Sipping the potent brew is especially soothing, and he has actually acquired a taste for it. Taking his goblet across the room to the window, he surveys the darkening sky. He leans against the window frame, watching the stars emerge one by one. The view combines with the bouquet of the wine to bestir a singular memory, and he lets his mind drift back to savor it. It was their first full night at Skyhold and everyone was settling into their new residence. He received a crucial scouting report and was eager to get started, so he brought it to her chamber for her review. Her door was open and he unthinkingly walked in without knocking. She was sitting on this window's ledge, heedless of the chill, goblet in hand and feet out of sight but obviously dangling carelessly over the deadly drop below. Alarmed by her recklessness, he made some small, distressed sound. As she turned towards him, he was struck by several finer points at once. Firstly, she had changed into her nightclothes, a barely-there confection that hinted none too subtly at what lay beneath. Secondly, the fire in the hearth lit her person most exquisitely, bathing her in an almost ethereal amber glow. Thirdly - _how had he not noticed this earlier?_ - she was lovely. _Captivating_. In fact, he'd never seen anyone more tempting. His breath caught when she smiled, and something swift and carnal passed between them as their eyes met, though he was too bemused to take in its portent at the time. "Ah. You're here," she said, as if she anticipated his visit. She deftly swung her legs around and stood, seemingly unconcerned by the effects of the firelight on her revealing attire. Even so, when she saw he'd not averted his eyes - _honestly he hadn't even thought about it_ - an altogether charming blush stained her fair cheeks, showing him she was not as bold as she wished to appear. Setting the glass on the table, she retrieved a dressing gown from the back of the nearest chair and cinched it around her slim waist. "Please. Join me, Ser Cullen," she entreated as she poured another goblet of wine and extended it to him. He stepped forward and accepted it, thanking her. Walking gracefully across the room on bare feet, she closed the bedroom door and turned, her gaze finding the report he was holding. As he stood there in awkward silence trying to hide the fact that simply breathing evenly had become a burden, she asked sweetly, "Is that for me?" Casting a blank look at the parchment in his hand, he was horrified to realize he'd entirely forgotten his reason for being there. Thinking now about the effort it took to compose himself, he laughs at his own expense. While he will never be known for his conversational skills, he found her inexplicably easy to talk to after that artless beginning. Their evening glass of wine over strategy and reports - _and eventually more personal matters_ - soon became part of their nightly routine. Now that she's away, he tends to brood over his wine instead. He'd never imagined himself the brooding type. The thought both appalls and amuses him, and he allows a wry smile.

He remains at the window, enjoying his wine and absorbing the gentle night. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. It's a lonely sound, and Cullen empathizes. He has been there in his life, and he much prefers it here. He turns his thoughts to the morrow, sifting through his plans and searching for flaws. As he drains his glass, he assures himself there are none. The endurance course is ready, and the weather should be perfect. It is going to be a very difficult but productive day, he is certain.

Setting the empty goblet on the mantle, he kneels in front of the window to pray. He gives thanks to the Maker for all that he has and for this chance to serve. He asks for his beloved's safe return, and for the safety of her companions. He prays for patience, strength, guidance and as always, forgiveness. Rising to his feet and crossing to the bed, he snuffs the candle and stretches out to take his rest at last.

His eyes soon become accustomed to the darkness and he realizes they are still open. This is a familiar battle, his pursuit of sleep and its coy evasion. He sighs heavily and turns onto his side. His face is merely inches from her pillow, its finely woven case the only bedding he has left unchanged over the weeks. Pulling it towards him, he inhales the faint lavender fragrance that clings to it. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine her here with him, cozily tucked against him as he blithely nods off, her silky hair sliding through his fingers.

He recalls that the first time he carried her to this bed, her legs wrapped round his waist, sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. He was lost in the exquisite feel of her lithe body moving urgently against his, in her soft gasps and whispered love words. Driven by a hunger too long denied, part of him wanted nothing more in the midst of their mutual surrender than to simply bury himself in her sweet warmth, find her rhythm and follow her into blessed release. Clinging to his last vestiges of coherence, he also knew that their first time together deserved much better than the feral coupling it was about to become. He needed to slow it down for both their sakes, and his struggle for control demanded every bit of his concentration. There was little wonder, then, that he didn't even notice the swirling cloud of violet light until it touched his skin. The extraordinary sensation took him completely by surprise…and he flinched. She felt his reaction, recognized it for what it was, and froze. She knew about Kinloch Hold - _all of it_ - and her soulful eyes were wide with anguish and remorse. "_Maker's breath_, Cullen, I wasn't thinking," she whispered. Of course she wasn't thinking, she was feeling just as he was. Even as he lay there trying to clear his head and catch his breath, he was able to reason that magic was an essential part of her being. He'd accepted that from the moment he first admitted to himself that he adored her. He of all people should have assumed it would be a natural part of intimacy for her, and so he said as much. Yet, he _had_ pulled away from her touch, and thus she wept, begging his forgiveness when he knew it was he who needed to be forgiven. He'd hurt her and he could scarcely bear it. Pulling her close and wiping the tears from her eyes, he told her the truth, that he loved her for who and what she was, that given the choice he'd change nothing, that he certainly didn't fear her… and that if the day ever came when she had to cross back through the Veil, he would go with her into the Fade and slay demons by her side for all eternity if that was what she would have of him. That last bit of fancy was meant to coax a smile from her and he was rewarded with her startled laughter, but the hand she placed tenderly over his heart told him she understood the very sincere fealty behind his jest. He then pledged to her the one thing he never before dared to offer any mage…his absolute trust. Not long ago, he'd despaired of ever being whole enough to think about such a thing much less do it, and so he eagerly dared her to put his oath to the test. He quickly learned that his trust was not misplaced. Submitting to the amorous attentions of a devoted enchantress was not quite the horror in practice that he would have once deemed it to be in theory. Almost as meaningful was the sated contentment that melted his bones afterward. It turned out to be his own personal miracle. Every night he holds her in his arms, he sleeps through until dawn.

Unfortunately, he is unlikely to find any serenity in such vivid musings while he abides alone in a cold bed. He wonders why in Thedas he permitted his thoughts to wander in _that_ direction. Now wound tighter than an Orlesian clock, he sighs again and turns onto his back. He shifts miserably. _Maker's blood_, it's hopeless. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he relights the candle. He briefly weighs the merits of his most immediate option - _at this rate, it would take but a moment_ - but his tenacious sense of discipline prevails this time. He supposes he could analyze the reports again, triple check that he's missed nothing, but the prospect holds little appeal. He stands and takes the candle over to the bookshelf, scanning the titles for something he hasn't read. The candle's glow falls upon an ornately gilded copy of _The Chant of Light_, and he pulls it from shelf. Lately he has neglected the Chant and suddenly misses the peace it always brings him. Choosing the roomiest, plumpest chair, he sets the candle on the edge of the table beside him and opens the holy tome. There on the inside cover, a small handwritten inscription leaves him awed. "For Cullen, my love - when you cannot sleep." Moved to his soul, he runs a finger over the precious words and is simply happy. Always, she finds ways to cherish him. He stretches contentedly, settles back and begins to read.

He wakes to the chirping of songbirds, pale golden light, and - _finally_ - the distinct scent of lavender. He is still in the chair, but he is draped in a blanket he did not have when he drifted off the night before. The gentle weight of her curled against his side and the tickle of her silken hair on his neck are absurdly erotic, although he is probably influenced by the seemingly endless weeks spent longing for her. He hugs her gently and presses a kiss to the top of her head. She wriggles closer, smiling before she even opens her eyes. _Merciful Andraste_, but he is a lucky man. Her velvet lips find the underside of his jaw as her fingertips caress his cheek. "Good morning, Ser Cullen," she purrs, her voice husky with sleep. "I hope you're prepared to provide a thorough accounting of your time during my absence."

He laughs quietly. "Indeed. I am at your pleasure as always, Your Eminence," he murmurs against the shell of her ear. Giving a delicate shiver that betrays her impatience, she scrambles to stand and takes his hand. Wearing little more than a cheeky smirk, she tugs him to his feet and tows him toward the waiting comfort of their bed. Cullen grins back at her. Truly, it is to be an unusually productive day.


End file.
